Footprints of a Dancer (Detective Elliot Mystery) (23 page)

“Laura brought hope and filled this old trailer house with happiness. For an old man who had looked forward to only alcohol and sin, she was a savior. Let me show you something.”

Nathaniel Parker led Elliot through the back door and down a set of steps to a small backyard where an old swing set occupied an area sectioned off and filled with sand. The grass, though cut and trimmed, had for the most part reclaimed the play area.

“I come here when I want to remember how it was when Laura played in this yard. She liked to dance and she was good at it, practicing almost daily the meaningful movements of our ancestors. They have been covered over by the seasons, but if you look closely you can still see her footprints in the sand, footprints of a dancer.

“Laura did not explain to me the complete meaning of her vision because she was trying to protect me, but now I understand. She believed she could stop the darkness. I think she is still trying, Detective, and she brought you here, to her grandfather, so I could tell you that she needs your help.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Elliot’s visit with Nathaniel Parker, Laura’s grandfather, changed forever the way he would think about the Spiro Mounds Archaeological Park. It would be closing in less than an hour, and he had no idea of what he hoped to accomplish there.

Elliot passed a couple of tourists who were on their way out, and a portion of their conversation drifted his way.

“Well they’re not very big, are they?”

The tourists were talking about the mounds. The grassy hills that now rose up from the earth were reproductions. The original mounds constructed by Native Americans had been torn down in the 1930’s, tunneled into and blasted by a venture known as the Pocola Mining Company, and later completely leveled by State Archaeologists. It wasn’t until the 1970’s that the mounds were reconstructed, using, in all probability, some of the same dirt, but the fact remained they were not the real deal. The knowledge of this weighed heavily on Elliot’s mind.

A rustling sound like dried leaves scraping across a hard surface filled the air, and just at the boundaries of his vision Elliot caught a suggestion of movement, a subtle blurring of the landscape as something traced across it.

Elliot studied the mounds, the area from where the disturbance had come. He forced his attention away from the distraction only to confront another problem. He was not alone. He stared into the lovely eyes of Cyndi Bannister.

Cyndi wrapped her arms around Elliot, and while her breath fell warm against his face and the scent of candied grapes clung to her hair and filled his senses, she pressed her lips against his.

It did not seem like fantasy, though Elliot knew it must be since Cyndi now resided in prison. At the moment, though, his thoughts stemmed not from a place of logic but from desire, and he longed to again experience the heat of Cyndi’s passion. He ran his hand down the small of her back, pulling her closer and straying even further, caressing the softness of her buttocks before regaining a portion of his senses.

Elliot brought her hair to his face to again relish her sweet scent. He had to remind himself she was an evil killer, capable of atrocities without remorse, had in fact taken the lives of her parents. He closed his eyes and when he reopened them Cyndi was gone.

Before Elliot could recover from the vision, or mental lapse, or whatever he’d just been through, someone spoke.

“You all right, sir?”

It was one of the park rangers.

“I’m fine,” Elliot said. “The lady I was with, did you happen to see where she went?”

“No, sir. But you’ve been standing in the same spot for a few minutes, so I thought I’d better check. You never know how these old mounds are going to affect people. Anything I can do for you?”

Elliot gathered his senses. “I’m interested in the history of the mounds. I’ve read a few books, looked over most of what’s on the internet, but I’ve yet to find exactly what I’m looking for. Would you know where I might get some information that’s not so well known, maybe even a little offbeat?”

The ranger stifled a laugh. “I knew there was something different about you, more than the average tourist, I mean. You’re one of those tabloid writers, aren’t you, looking for spooks and curses, that sort of thing?”

“Not exactly. I’m…”

The ranger waved his hand. “Don’t worry about it. If you promise not to mention me or any of the other park employees, I’ve got a lead for you, one that’ll probably give you what you’re after.”

* * *

The sign painted across the window read
Spiro Research Center.

Inside the shop, a small man with black, oily hair sat behind the counter, flipping through the pages of a book. The front entrance had been equipped with a bell, but he gave no indication he’d heard the warning.

Books lined the walls, and thousands more occupied inner shelves, creating dark hallways through the store. The silence was broken only by a slow turning ceiling fan that was slightly out of balance, its long chain knocking against the motor housing in a rhythmic clicking.

“Excuse me,” Elliot said.

He looked up from his study. “Hey there. Sorry. Didn’t hear you come in. Must have been caught up in my reading. Happens all the time.”

“I’m looking for information concerning the mounds. I was told you might be able to help.”

The bookstore owner glanced at a wall clock. “Oh, well I’m afraid the park would be closed now. You could try tomorrow. Directions, is that what you need?”

“I know where the park is. What I’m after is history, something a little more in depth than what’s readily available.”

He stood and touched his forehead with his fingertips, as if he were trying to extract something. “In depth?”

Elliot followed the man as he left the counter and started down one of the narrow, isles. “Got a few books,” he said, “should be something here. Are you looking for dates, when and how the mounds were constructed, time periods, who occupied the area?”

“Do you have anything concerning the destruction of the mounds in the 1930’s, and what was found, specific artifacts, that sort of thing?”

“Specific artifacts?”

“One of the park rangers thought I might find what I’m looking for here.”

“A ranger?”

“He thought I wrote for the tabloids. I don’t, by the way.”

“Why would he do that?” Answering his own question, the man said, “Questions. The questions you asked. Tall lanky guy, smiles a lot?”

“That’s the one.”

He nodded, incorporating both his head and his shoulders. “Okay, who are you for real?”

Elliot extended his hand. “Name’s Elliot.”

“McKenzie, Doctor McKenzie.”

“I’m an investigator, Doctor McKenzie. But the unusual nature of the case I’m working suggests I play things a little differently. I’m unofficial, on my own time.”

“Unofficial?”

“I’m in the process of compiling evidence.”

A tentative grin spread across McKenzie’s face. “Investigating the paranormal would be my guess. Are you a ghost hunter, Mr. Elliot?”

Elliot’s stomach tightened. In a very real sense, that’s exactly what he was. “The information I need could stray in such a direction.”

“Well, Mr. Unofficial Investigator, the generally accepted theory is that the mound area was inhabited by people of Caddo influence, a pre-Columbian, Mississippian culture that occupied the site from roughly 850 A.D. to 1450.

“What Pre-Columbian really means is before the occurrence of significant European influence. The Vikings reached Newfoundland about 500 years before Columbus stumbled upon the islands he called the Indies, and it’s been suggested the Irish might have landed in North America 400 years before that. In addition, there’s the Chinese, Polynesians, Greeks, yadda, yadda. I guess you could say Columbus rediscovered the new world, but he wasn’t the first and neither were any of the other groups I rattled off.”

“Interesting,” Elliot said. “But what does any of that have to do with Spiro?”

“The mounds… right. It all relates. But I can see where you might think I lost focus. You wouldn’t believe what goes on. Anyone who attempts to go against the popular theories is literally attacked by the archaeological establishment. Unless they have something to hide, why would they do such a thing?”

“It’s all very interesting,” Elliot said. “But I don’t think we’re on the same page here.”

McKenzie touched his forehead. “Wait. What exactly are you looking for?”

Elliot pulled the photocopy of the obsidian knife from his pocket and held it out.

McKenzie studied the photo briefly. The expression on his face said it all. “What does this have to do with the mounds?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

McKenzie blinked several times. “Most archaeologists don’t believe there was significant interaction between Mississippian and Mesoamerican cultures. Some say none at all. That’s ridiculous. Trade goods from all over the country, including Mexico, have been found at the mounds. Of course there was contact.”

McKenzie led Elliot to the rear of the shop and into a storage room. A bright, bare bulb dangled from the ceiling, its glow revealing an area with large metal shelves lining the walls. An old wooden desk occupied the corner closest to the door. McKenzie rummaged through some items in a box, pulled out a framed photo.

The 8 x 10, black and white photograph the doctor handed Elliot depicted two men standing near a crude wooden table scattered with various artifacts. In the background, open tunnels snaked into the northern-most cone of the Spiro Mound complex. The experience of the photographer showed through, rendering the subject matter in clear, distinguishable detail. Among the artifacts displayed on the table was a knife made of obsidian. It looked, in every detail, exactly like the one in the photocopy he’d found in Gerald’s car. The knife might have been of Mesoamerican design, as Doctor Cramer at the museum had indicated, but in the summer of 1935 it, or one just like it, had been excavated from the earthen mounds located near Spiro, Oklahoma.

Elliot suspected the men in the photo were members of the Pocola Mining Company, the company that had leased the property and tunneled into the mounds to get the artifacts. “Do you know who these people are?”

Doctor McKenzie shook his head. “There are no names on the back, but check this out.”

McKenzie pulled a magnifying glass from the top drawer of the desk and handed it to Elliot. “Look at the upper left corner.”

Elliot studied the photo. He hadn’t noticed it before, the strange obsidian knife having garnered his attention, but standing off to the left, almost out of the camera’s field of vision, a man dressed in black leaned against a tree.

Elliot’s fingers went slack and he nearly lost his grip on the magnifying glass. The man in the photograph looked like his old buddy, Gerald. “He’s wearing a Roman collar.”

“Interesting isn’t it?”

“Why would a Catholic priest be at an archaeological dig?” Elliot asked.

“I know. You never know what you might run across.”

“How did the photograph come to be in your possession?”

McKenzie shrugged. “I pick up things as I run across them.”

Elliot thought about the man in the photograph, the elongated shape of his face, the way his eyes sat deep in their sockets. He looked too much like Gerald not to be related. “Is there a Catholic church in town?”

An understanding look crossed McKenzie’s face. “Yeah, but it’s only been here since the 1970’s. The closest one back then would’ve been in Poteau. It’s still there. I mean, I guess it’s the same one. I don’t know what kind of records they would keep, but I guess it’d be worth a shot.”

“Thanks,” Elliot said.

“Sure. Let me know what you find.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

In the dim light of the overcast evening, the Immaculate Conception Church appeared stoic, even foreboding, as if it were a miniature castle lifted from the foggy moors of Scotland, a country manor where one did not go without proper invitation.

Father Williams came out of the darkness of the chancel, his pace slow and deliberate until he stopped a few feet away.

The nearly expressionless face of the priest did little to alleviate Elliot’s apprehension, though he’d called ahead so his visit would not be a surprise. “I appreciate your seeing me on short notice.”

“Of course,” the priest said. “However, I do have a prior engagement. If this is nothing more than a genealogical quest, I’ll have to decline the interview. Otherwise, I can only offer a few minutes.”

Elliot pulled his badge. A need to be completely honest pressed heavily on his conscience.

Father Williams examined the credentials and handed them back. “Why would a homicide detective from Tulsa be interested in the archives of a Catholic church in Poteau, Oklahoma?”

The atmosphere inside the church should have been peaceful, should have been quiet, though the tension in the nave and the unnerving sound of wind blowing outside the building worked hard to undermine such a state. As if he understood what Elliot was thinking, the actions of Father Williams, his glancing at the windows and constant straitening of his clothes, indicated this was not, at least in total, an often occurring ambiance.

“I can’t tell you that the case is official,” Elliot said, “but I can tell you it’s extremely important.”

“Please make your point, Detective.”

“Of course. In the summer of 1935, something happened in Spiro, an event connected with the removal of ceremonial objects from the mounds.”

The priest studied Elliot’s face. “Your regret is understandable. What the miners did was wrong. There’s no doubt about that. However, it’s prudent to keep in mind that what you speak of was a depression-era venture, the goal of its members certainly being to make money, and during a time when there was little of it to go around.”

“Thank you, Father. And forgive me for speaking in such general terms. My concern has to do with a particular artifact the priest I’m inquiring about was associated with.”

Father Williams frowned. “I hope it is not your intention to cast doubt upon the Church.”